


The Ties That Bind

by Dramione84



Series: The Ties That Bind [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Drama, Feels, Hurt, Isolation, M/M, Romance, Seperation, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:41:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8797690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dramione84/pseuds/Dramione84
Summary: Marcus had made Oliver promise that when the war broke out he would run away with him & not fight. But Oliver knew, no matter what promises he made, he was always going to fight. A year later, separated by the war that has taken friends and foes on both sides, Marcus clings to what feels at times a desperate hope that he will be reunited with his friend, his love, his soulmate.





	1. Chapter 1

Clutching his wand tight in his fist, Marcus pushed the door open slowly, tentatively, peering inside.  The simple kitchen of the cottage looked as though it was waiting for the resident family to come down for breakfast.  A lonely kettle sat on the stove, a tea caddy open on the counter next to it.  A faded newspaper sat open on the farmhouse table that took up the middle of the room; two coffee cups and the remains of half eaten toast on a plate half on one page.  

His breathing ragged from exertion, he glanced warily about the room as he stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.  Casting  _ lumos _ , he waved his wand slowly around the room as he took in his surroundings.  The faint hum of magic told him that witches and wizards had occupied this cottage; how long ago he couldn’t be certain.

Moving through the cottage, he found further evidence of habitation but also the expected tell tale signs of panicked departure became more apparent.  Icy winds blew the first flakes of the coming blizzard through the frame where the front door should be; the splintered remnants of the wooden door lying haphazardly where it had once stood.  Waving his wand, he cast  _ rapero _ , his magic tingling through his numb fingers; the effects of two spells in less than ten minutes coursing through his veins like a drug for an addict.  It had been more days than he could recall since he had last cast a spell, abstaining from his magic seemingly the sensible option while he was on the run.

Shivering from the cold, he brought his arms around his body, rubbing his hands against the goosebumped flesh of his biceps as he moved cautiously through the cottage.  He was almost certain he was alone, but he knew it never paid to be less than absolutely certain about such matters during a war.  

His thighs complained painfully as he made his way up the stairs, tired and weary from so long on the run.  Checking each room, he finally satisfied himself he was alone.  He crossed the threshold of the last bedroom along the hall, careful to avoid the window as he made his way over to the dresser, it’s draws half pulled out the single clue of haste.  Fingering the fabrics with his dirty hands, he carefully rummaged around looking for something warmer.  

Pushing the middle draw in, he crouched down to inspect the garments in the bottom draw, his fingers dragging across a woollen turtleneck jumper.  Eyebrows knitting together, he pulled it out, bring it to his nose.  He wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, teasing him torturously with the images that haunted his broken hours of fitful sleep, as he breathed in the familiar scent that was uniquely Oliver.

Happy to indulge in what may yet prove to be a trick of his broken mind, he pulled the jumper on, relishing in the warmth that it provided, his heart aching at the absence of his lover and best friend; the other half of his soul.  He tried to recall the last time he had seen him but he couldn’t remember.  So much he could not remember: when he ate last; when he slept; how far he had travelled; where in the hell of this god forsaken war he was.

Pulling back the covers, satisfied that his wards were strong and would alert him to any danger, he allowed himself to fold into the comfort provided by the feeble warmth, the softness of the mattress a welcome change from the harshness of sleeping in the undergrowth.  As his eyelids fluttered closed, his fatigued form begging for the release of sleep, his thoughts drifted once more to Oliver.  Lacrimosa almost overwhelming him, he struggled to breathe, dehydration the only reason for his lack of tears.  Sleep pulled a heavy blanket over him, enveloping his whole being as he lay curled in the foetal position.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Eyelids heavy from deep sleep, he groaned, shifting his weight from the uncomfortable position he now found himself in.  Pulling back the covers, he glanced around the room, trying to establish some frame of reference for how long he had been unconscious.  Dim light filled the room from the small window causing him to presume it was at least the afternoon.  How close to evening, he could not say.  Dragging his body from where he was cocooned in the blankets, he brought his feet to the floor, pulling himself into an upright position.  Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands, he took a few moments before standing and making his way over to the small bathroom.  

Staring blankly at the reflection in the glass, he tried to process that the image staring back was himself.  Raking a hand through his dark locks, he sighed heavily.  Poking and prodding at his eyes and cheeks, he inspected the lines and dark circles under his eyes.  Dragging his fingers across his chin, he felt the stubble bristle his palm, vaguely wondering if Oliver would appreciate his rugged look.

He reached out, grasping the cold metal of the tap, twisting it hard until the frigid water rushed forth like water behind a dam breaking free.  Cupping his hands, he allowed the water to fill up before splashing it against his face, grimacing at the action which made him gasp.  Glancing around, he spotted a lone hand towel on the rail, bringing it to his face, patting his skin dry.  Briefly he decided he would shower later, his stomach reminding him audibly that he needed sustenance.

Once downstairs, he made his way into the kitchen, opening cupboards, inspecting the sparse contents.  Bringing the tea caddy to his nose, he sniffed, inhaling the strong earthy scent and decided it was still good.  His fingers curled around the handle of the kettle as he lifted it from the stove, filling it at the sink before returning it, pulling his wand from his waistband to cast an _incendio_.  

Frowning, he stepped out into the porch, gathering several dried logs into his arms, taking them through to the lounge.  Kneeling on the flagstone hearth, he opened the door to the wood stove, piling the wood inside.  Finding an old newspaper in a basket on the hearth, he screwed up several pages into loose balls, shoving them under the logs.  Quickly locating the matches from the mantle, he scraped one across the sandpaper, the hiss and roar of the flame coming to life, almost startling him.  He touched the flame to the paper, watching it curl as it spread, catching the logs instantly.  

Returning to the kitchen, he pulled the kettle from the stove as it started to whistle, pouring it into the cup he had earlier spooned tea into.  Bringing the cup to his lips, he grimaced as the scalding liquid burnt his tongue, before placing the cup on the sideboard, resuming his earlier search, pulling out the lone packet of biscuits.  Opening the cupboard under the sink, he was just about to close it when something caught his eye.  

Crouching down, he reached into the cupboard and moved the pots and pans, leaning in while bracing himself on the sink, his fingers curling around the edge of something hard yet smooth, pulling it forward until it was out from it’s hiding place.

Eyes growing wide, he stared in wonder, uncertain as to whether what he had uncovered was a blessing or curse.  

There, in his hands, sat a radio.


	2. Chapter 2

Unpacking at each new location was always hard but, like every Order member, Oliver had learnt to travel light to keep the pain to a minimum.  Pulling out the drawers he bundled his spare woollen turtleneck jumper into the bottom drawer, along with his two pairs of faded denim jeans; into the middle drawer he put his t-shirts.  The top drawer he filled with socks and boxers.

Checking over his shoulder to be sure that he was alone, he reached under his jumper, pulling the book that he had hastily shoved into the waistband of his jeans when he was forced to depart Shell Cottage at a moment’s notice, last night.  Running his fingers lovingly over the worn leather jacket, the corners of his mouth tugged up into a soft smile as he thought of the man who owned the book.  

Guilt flooded over him, washing away the nostalgic image in his mind, as he tried to recall how much time had passed since he had seen Marcus; his fingers gripped the book so tight that his knuckles blanched.  His whole body trembled as his eyes misted over, tears threatening to spill forth.

A soft knock on the door broke him from his reverie, causing him to spin round, wand in hand reflexively.

“Hey, it’s only me,” the brunette murmured softly, holding her hands up apologetically.

Oliver’s shoulders slumped as he visibly relaxed.  “Sorry, Hermione.  You startled me,” Oliver explained.

Stepping into the room, she approached Oliver, a look of understanding gracing her features as she touched his arm.  Oliver blushed, averting her curious gaze, as he mentally kicked himself for allowing himself a moment of weakness rather than shoving the book away from prying eyes immediately.

A smile ghosting her lips, she nodded, looking up at him.

“I gave him that just before the Christmas break last year,” she told him, gaze fixed on the book, missing the way his eyes widened in shock at the revelation.

Looking up at him, she took his hand in her own, squeezing it tight.  “I’m here if you want to talk, Oliver,” she told him, her chocolate orbs awash with understanding.  Oliver swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully as he choked back a strangled sob, unable to answer her.  He managed a nod and she smiled before slipping from the room.

Oliver sat heavily on the old wrought iron bed, causing it to creak in complaint.   He stroked his hand lovingly over the worn leather, thinking about the raven haired wizard who gave him the book, his heart clenching in his chest so tightly he almost couldn’t breathe. Little drops of water splashed onto the soft leather and belatedly he realised he was crying as images of Marcus, the night he had given him the book, had washed over him, the emotion almost unbearable.  He hadn’t realised how much he could miss one person, but he did miss him; his heart and his body ached for him all the time and he wondered if Marcus was so consumed by the same pain for him.

Wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, he settled back on the bed, opening the book.  It was a first edition of John Milton’s Paradise Lost.  Marcus had scribbled notes in the margin where the text had provoked the first thoughts that had driven him to turn his back on his family and not fight alongside the death eaters.  On the blank pages at the back he had penned a little poem to Oliver. He had then handed him the book, the first time he told him that he loved him.  That was six months ago.  The night before he had left his side before he awoke, slipping out to meet Remus.  He hadn’t been able to tell Marcus he was leaving, knowing he would try to talk him out of it.  

Three months beforehand, during the Christmas break, he had promised Marcus he wouldn’t join The Order, that he would run away with him instead of fighting.  That he wouldn’t be a Gryffindor.  Oliver didn’t have the heart to tell him he had already joined The Order, his tattoo hidden at school under a glamour.  Now his tattoo shone brightly on his left forearm, the phoenix proudly ruffling his feathers.  Oliver tried not to look at it, the guilt wrapping tendrils around his heart as he thought of the pleading and fear in Marcus’s eyes when he had made him swear.  True he hadn’t broken his promise to not join The Order, because he was already a member, but he had promised not to fight hadn’t he? And he had lied to the man he loved by omission, and left without a word of goodbye, his only parting gesture to take off the leather bracelet with his name on, a cheap souvenir from a trip abroad, and tied it to his left wrist, as it lay casually above their heads on the pillow as he slept.  A cowardly move from the Gryffindor, he knew, but he couldn’t bear to see that pain once more in his eyes.

He wondered if Marcus was still wearing the bracelet now, after all this time...Wondered if Marcus would ever forgive him for his betrayal...Wondered if Marcus still loved him...Missed him.  Sitting up, he tried to get his heart rate to slow and his breathing to relax a little, taking deep steadying breaths as he clutched the book tight.

 

*****

 

Remus called them down to the kitchen, and one by one they descended the worn stairs.  Dean Thomas, Hermione Granger, Oliver Wood and some boy Oliver was unfamiliar with.  Dennis somebody, he thought.  They were the only ones in this safe house, senior Order members each taking charge of a safehouse and four junior members; the fabled ‘Golden Trio’ split up to avoid their capture.

Constant vigilance was their motto, each person taking a shift on watch, while the others went about their research tasks, rested, ate, tried to get some sleep.  It was a tense set up.  Their previous safe house had been compromised and so now, here they were in the lowlands of Scotland, waiting for more orders from Moody.

Tucking the book under the clothes, he shoved the drawer closed, shuffling out of the little room, closing the door behind him. Fatigue was common amongst the little group; life underground as part of a resistance and in the middle of a war meant that sleep was something alien to most of them.  

Oliver pushed the door to the kitchen open, greeting Dean who was taking the kettle off the stove, pouring tea into waiting mugs. Pulling out a chair, he dropped into it, taking the mug Dean offered him with thanks as he watched the tall young wizard step out onto the porch to take the first watch.  

Reaching across the farmhouse table, Oliver pulled the radio towards him, turning the dial until he found the broadcast frequency for Potterwatch, listening intently to the updated list of casualties and fatalities.  His heart ached at the list which was thankfully short, some names known to him, others unknown.  He knew it was highly unlikely that he would hear Marcus’s name as they only listed Death Eaters if they were very high profile.  That is how he knew that Rowle had been apprehended, along with Dolohov, after a skirmish with Ron Weasley at Charing Cross two nights ago.  

With trembling hands clamped around his mug, he sipped his tea while listening to the final words of the broadcast, offering up hope for a short lived war and for lightning to strike.  Somehow, Oliver thought wryly, he doubted that would happen any time soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Fiddling with the dials, Marcus tried to tune the radio away from static and into a broadcast frequency.  Frustration building, his lips curled into a sneer as he growled at the device.  He was just about to give up when he thought he had found something.  Turning the dial slowly, trying to get back onto the channel, it was a few moments before he heard the quiet voice listing names of people who had fallen.

His heart plummeted to his feet, nausea rising with bile in his throat as he struggled to keep his composure.  Gripping the radio so tight his fingertips turned white, his fingers starting to cramp, he listened, some names more familiar than others.  Finally the broadcaster signed off with a weather report that a storm was coming and predicting lightning would strike.

Static filled the air and Marcus turned the device off, placing it on the table.  Carding his hands through his hair, he tried to slow down the racing thoughts in his mind as he made his way through to the lounge, the fire he had lit earlier warming the room invitingly. Opening the little door to the wood burner, he reached for one of the logs he had brought in from the porch and placed in the wicker basket on the hearth, pushing it into the flames before shutting the door once more.  

Eyes scanning the room, he took in the bookcase and table in the corner, noticing for the first time the papers and books that had been scattered about in whatever skirmish had taken place here before The Order had been forced to abandon the cottage as a safe house.  Bending, he picked up pieces of parchment from where they had fallen under the table, frowning at the handwriting, recognising it immediately.

Hermione Granger.

Pulling out a chair, he dropped into it heavily, clutching the parchment in his hand, his mind filling with images of the witch and the moments of cordial conversation that had turned into something akin to friendship.  It was not public knowledge that the two of them had conversed, but it had all started, unsurprisingly, over a book.

Hermione had stumbled upon Marcus one evening when she was in the library after hours.  Striding past the muggle studies section she had stopped abruptly, turning slowly, catching sight of him huddled over a book.  Everything about the image before her had seemed wrong and she found herself drawn to the discovery like a child approaching something forbidden yet desired.

Marcus attempted a sneer, but it seemed after six years of torment, Draco Malfoy had managed to condition Hermione Granger immune of the effect of the Slytherin Sneer. Her eyes boring into his before her gaze dropped to the book, they widened as she recognised the text as Nietzsche's ‘Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future.’  From then on they had met in the library every Thursday evening after hours to discuss muggle philosophy.  Already questioning the indoctrination, his parents had, in their willingness to put their Dark Lord over their own son, been the catalyst for him to renounce his upbringing entirely. 

The week before he received his father’s letter, Hermione handed him her first edition of John Milton’s Paradise Lost; a book that Marcus found himself utterly absorbed by, almost to the exclusion of all else. 

The more he lost himself in the book, the more he had started to question things about his parent’s way of thinking and the more certain he grew about the coming war- a war he knew in all likelihood would take Oliver from him.  

Marcus shut his eyes, trying to steady his breathing as he recalled Christmas Day with pain.

Nuzzling at Oliver’s neck, he felt him turn slowly, his lips capturing Marcus’s in a gentle, languid kiss that seemed to drag out into eternity, before Marcus pulled away.

“Promise me something,” Marcus whispered, his voice hoarse as he grabbed Oliver’s left hand with his own, bringing it up to ghost a kiss across his knuckles.

He watched Oliver swallow hard,  “What?”

“This shit is going to cause a war,” he began, closing his eyes momentarily.  When he opened them, they were shining bright but he knew Oliver could see the fear that set in his gaze.

“It’s going to get fucking fucked up with death and destruction and torture.  Promise me that you won’t go all Gryffindor on me,” he pleaded, insistently.

Oliver rolled his eyes, “Unless you had forgotten, I  _ am _ a Gryffindor,” he chuckled.

Marcus shook his head.  “No.  Don’t do that; don’t make light of what I am saying,” he continued, his voice cracking with emotion.  “Don’t go joining their army.”

Oliver started to protest, but Marcus silenced him with a kiss, stealing himself. If ever there was a time to tell Oliver how he felt it was now.  Dropping his forehead to Oliver’s he sighed. “I love you, Ollie.  I love your bravery, but it could, no, it  _ will  _ get you  _ killed _ .  I couldn’t bear that.  Don’t force me to live a life without you,” he begged.

He heard Oliver take in a breath sharply.  They had never discussed feelings before.  Oliver didn’t speak, his hand cupping the back of Marcus’s head, pulling him in for a hungry kiss.  Marcus responded in kind before breaking away again, looking into Oliver’s chestnut eyes.

“Now, promise me, Ollie.  Promise me you won’t fight; you won’t join the Order,” Marcus demanded, searching Oliver’s eyes.

“But,” Oliver began.

“No but’s,  this is life or death.  I choose life.  I choose love.  I choose you, Ollie.  Run away with me.  If shit starts to get real, promise me you will choose me and run away with me,” he begged, tears welling in his eyes.

Marcus’s hand went under the pillow, pulling out a book, pressing it to Oliver’s chest.  Oliver looked down, confused, lifting the book so he could read the title.

“Paradise Lost,” he read slowly, his eyes growing wide.  “I’ve heard of this, isn’t this a muggle book?”

Marcus nodded, swallowing hard.  “Yes.  I want you to have it.”

Oliver turned onto his side, frowning at Marcus.  “Why are you giving this to me?”

“I need you to understand where I stand in this coming war, Ollie.  I do not stand with them,” he spat, referring to his Death Eater parents.  “But I can’t stand with The Order, either.  Read it and you will understand.

Marcus’s eyes misted at the memory, his breathing becoming erratic as his chest tightened.  He knew, fuck he had known.  “ I  _ am _ a Gryffindor,” Oliver had told him, and Marcus had taken it as him making light of the situation.  But he wasn’t.  Marcus choked back sobs, the torrent of emotions threatening to engulf him and drown him in his sorrow.  Oliver had been telling him.  “I am a Gryffindor.”  No matter the promises they made to each other, he was always going to fight, and Marcus was always destined to spend the war alone and on the run, in his own personal hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Oliver’s fingers curled around the cup of tea as he lifted it to his lips, sipping casually as he read.

“Have you found anything yet?” Remus asked, leaning over Hermione as she studiously worked.

“Possibly,” she replied, her fingers lifting to push a loose curl back behind her ear nervously as she shifted in her seat.  “Read this,” she instructed, pointing out a passage in the book she was reading.  For weeks they had been researching ways to try and overcome the dark magic that Voldemort and his Death Eaters were using, but so far they had come up with very little.   Each time The Order seemed to be making progress they changed their tactics, making it very difficult to try and overcome them.

The radio in the kitchen crackled causing Oliver to look up, exchanging worried looks with Hermione and Remus, before the three rushed to the kitchen to listen to the unexpected broadcast.

_ “We have a new weather report.  Lightning has struck at the heart of the Wiltshire countryside.” _

“Malfoy,” murmured Hermione, narrowing her eyes, a flicker of something Oliver could not quite place ghosting across her face momentarily.  

“Father or Son though?” Remus asked, his eyebrows knitting together in a deep frown.

Dean simply shrugged before returning to his watch.  

Oliver glanced around realising Hermione had slipped out of the kitchen, ducking into the front room, assuming that she had returned to the work Remus had given her.  Finding the empty seat which she had earlier occupied, he made his way up the stairs.

Knocking lightly on her bedroom door, he gave her a moment before pushing the door open slightly.

“You okay?” he asked, concern rich in his voice.

Hermione glanced up from where she was sat in an old chair by the window.  “Yes and no,” she replied, cryptically.  Sensing her trepidation, Oliver popped his head back out into the hallway, and finding they were alone, he slipped into the room shutting the door with a soft click.

Hermione gave him a tired smile as she watched Oliver pull the only other chair in the room to sit with her.

“Want to talk?” he offered, flashing her a lopsided grin.

“I’m not sure that I would know where to start,” Hermione murmured, turning her gaze back to the window, watching the sky change as a storm brewed in the distance.

Oliver chuckled softly as he carded his hand through his auburn locks, “Yeah, I’m not sure I would know where to start either,” he confessed.

“Marcus?” Hermione asked, glancing at Oliver for confirmation.

Oliver nodded.

“I’m not entirely sure anyone would believe me if I told them,” Hermione admitted, a hint of blush staining her cheeks.

“Try me,” Oliver offered with a slight shrug, adopting the exaggerated pose of someone intently listening.

Hermione let out a small laugh.  “I guess if anyone is going to understand it will be you,” she admitted, turning slightly, her face suddenly growing serious.

“I feel torn,” she confessed, her voice low.  “I worry immensely about his safety.”  She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, gazing once more out of the window.

Oliver considered this for a moment.  “From what I know of him, he has always been a very complex character.”

Hermione snorted.  “Understatement.”

Oliver chuckled.  “You know what I mean.”

“We could be talking about Marcus,” Hermione murmured, her gaze meeting Oliver’s in a pointed look.

Oliver’s expression sobered.  “I worry about his safety too.”

“They aren’t on our side,” Hermione stated, her words hitting Oliver’s heart, causing it to ache.

“They aren’t on anyone’s side,” Oliver murmured, his own words shredding his heart.

“That’s what scares me,” Hermione admitted, pain apparent in her eyes; a pain she saw reflected back in Oliver’s as he sighed, looking away.

“It’s what scares me the most,” Oliver whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.  When he looked back at Hermione his eyes shone with unshed tears.

“I wish I knew what was happening at the Manor,” Hermione sighed, “But Remus tells me nothing.”

“Does he even know?” Oliver asked, one eyebrow quirked questioningly.

Hermione nodded, a soft smile ghosting her lips.  “Remus knows.  It would be hard for him not to.”

Oliver, unsure what Hermione meant, frowned as Hermione turned her attention to the window once more.   Sensing it would upset her to press her further, he stood from his seat, reaching across to squeeze her hand.  

Leaning forward in her seat, her eyes narrowed at the storm clouds as they rolled across the sky towards the cottage.  Suddenly she realised that the clouds were not clouds at all but an incoming attack of Death Eaters.  Grabbing Oliver’s wrist she screamed “Get down!” just as the glass shattered.  “Oliver!” she shrieked, as he tore from the room, wand in hand, racing down the hallway to his bedroom.  

Hermione raced after him, casting spells and hexes as the Death Eaters rampaged through the building.  From downstairs she could hear Remus and the others shouting.

“Oliver!” she called again as he hurriedly emptied the top draw of his dresser.  “There’s no time!” she admonished as he shoved what he could into his bag, shoving Paradise Lost roughly under his shirt.  

“I can’t leave this, you know I can’t,”he told her, his eyes full of emotion.

Hermione grabbed his hand, and the pair raced to the stairs where Remus and the others were holding off the four Death Eaters who had attacked.  

Remus cast a protego, whipping his head round, relief flooding his face as he reached out, the others grabbing hold as he disapparated, taking them with him side-along.

Landing on his back hard, Oliver was momentarily winded as his eyes regained focus.  “Where are we?” he winced, rolling his head to one side.

Hermione scrambled to her feet.  “Remus?” she called, glancing around, her eyes finding his as he knelt on the ground, panting.

“The New Forest, Wiltshire.” he rasped as Hermione tried to read his expression.

“Why have you brought us here, Remus?” she asked, a slight edge to her voice as he struggled to his feet.

“I think you know why,” he told her, his voice low.

Oliver glanced around.  “Shouldn’t there be a safe house?” he asked, glancing at Remus who had fixed his gaze on Hermione.

“Hermione always carries a tent with her,” Remus stated, his tone measured, eyes never leaving hers.

Taking the tent from her outstretched hand, he and Dean set it up while Remus and Hermione set up wards, and Dennis collected some firewood.  Once they were inside, Remus and Hermione sat huddled over a map quietly discussing, Oliver noticing the tension in Hermione’s expression despite her low voice.  Settling into his camp bed, he reached into his bag, glancing up to check Dean and Dennis were still occupied with their game of exploding chess.  Satisfied, he pulled out the book, clutching it to his chest, his mind filling with thoughts of Marcus. The earlier pain was numbed by adrenaline returning, causing his chest to constrict tightly as he wondered how much longer he could go on without word of him.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Beta'd as it's so close to xmas everyone is busy, so apologies for any errors.

Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his muscles aching from having sat in one position for Merlin knew how long.  The parchment with Hermione’s handwriting still clutched in his hand, he tried to make sense of what she had been working on.  How long it had been since she, and he hoped, Oliver, had been here, he could not be sure.

Pulling the books that were scattered across the table towards him, he read through some of the passages, a deep frown setting on his face.  The subject matter was dark, that much he knew.  But what she had been searching for he could not tell.  Her notes were a jumbled mess, some of it making more sense to Marcus than the rest; some notes crossed out where the young woman had clearly changed her mind.

The radio in the kitchen crackled loudly, causing him to twist around, wand in hand reflexively before he realised what the sound was.  Rushing to the kitchen, he grabbed hold of the radio, twisting the volume button up as he held his breath, listening.

_ “Unconfirmed weather report, lightning has struck our outpost.  I repeat, lightning has struck,”  _ the excited voice cried across the airwaves.

“But what does that mean?” Marcus yelled as he clutched the device, panic coursing through his veins.

_ “Forces are gathering, batten down your hatches,” _ the broadcaster continued before signing off.

“This must be it.  Fuck!  They are preparing for battle,” Marcus yelled, slamming the radio down on the counter, pacing the small kitchen, his hands going to his hair, tugging. Tears openly streamed down his face as he struggled to breath as he halted, slowly sliding down the cabinet until he found the floor, pulling his legs up as he dropped his head into his hands sobbing.  His left palm came across his eyes as he cried, the fingers of his right hand finding the worn leather bracelet, tracing where the letters were engraved into the metal name tag.  

oOoOoOoOo

Some time later, Marcus awoke to find himself on the kitchen floor, his heavy muscles smarting at the uncomfortable position on the flagstone floor.  Pulling himself upright, he fingered the bracelet once more.

“Where are you Ollie?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking with emotion.  

Sighing heavily, he pulled himself up, filling the kettle as he tried to decide what to do.  Should he go on a fool’s errand:  try and make his way to the school?  Clearly that’s what was meant by ‘the outpost’ as he had heard rumours that several students had formed an underground rebellion at the school, unsurprising when he thought of who was currently in charge there.  But what guarantees did he have that Oliver would be there? He knew from listening to the broadcasts every night that skirmishes between The Order and the Death Eaters took place all over the country, the forces of both sides scattered in a war that seemed unending and without any real sense of direction.

He had been staying in an abandoned farm a few weeks ago when he had heard whispers that a battle had taken place at Malfoy Manor.  Huddled in the rafters of a barn, hidden between the bales, he heard voices of three young Order members, scavenging for supplies.  The rumour was that Hermione herself had been involved.

Suddenly Marcus stilled his preparations for his tea, eyes going wide as he tried to recall exactly what he had heard.  Rushing back into the living room, he went to the table, searching the books and papers once more.  Maps of the South of England were under the books, several locations marked out.  At the back of the table sat a heavy tome that he dragged forward, recognising it instantly.  His father owned a copy of the same book.

“Wait,” he muttered, “This  _ is _ my father’s copy.”

Dragging the map out from under the books he scrutinised it carefully, realising the locations marked out were the homes of high profile Death Eaters and the homes of the families of the Sacred 28.

“Fuck, what in the bloody fuck are you doing?” he rasped as he grabbed her notes once more, searching.  “Why the fuck are they raiding these places? Are they fucking suicidal?”

Opening the book he turned the pages frantically almost going past and then returning to the small mark that indicated what Hermione had found.

“What the fuck is a Horcrux?” he wondered aloud as he dropped into the chair once more, reading intently as the book described in graphic detail the exact process for creating one.  Marcus shuddered, swallowing back vomit as he read, the process sickening him to his very core.  

“Shit.”

Taking a deep breath, he continued to read, hoping to find what Hermione had clearly been looking for: a way to destroy them without the curse taking hold of the one aiming to do so, but the text was vague.  Growling, he shut the book, swearing once more. Something caught his attention in the corner of his eye, causing him to twist in his seat, squinting at the parchment.  In the corner, Hermione had drawn a doodle.  It seemed so out of place for someone who was the hardworking notetaker he knew her to be.  Why would she draw something? Pulling the sheet to him, he folded back the corner, to find another doodle.  The first looked like a symbol; a circle within a triangle, a line down the middle.  The second was a snake.  No, Marcus corrected himself as he spotted the fangs.  A basilisk.

Why would Hermione draw that?


	6. Chapter 6

Something awoke Oliver, his eyes snapping open, adjusting to the dim light of the candles in the tent.  He started to turn over, stilling when he heard the hushed voices of Hermione and Remus.

“...there is nothing to tell,” Hermione insisted, her low voice almost inaudible.

 

Oliver frowned, listening as he watched the shadows against the wall of the tent.

 

“No? I trust you, Hermione.  But you need to be honest with me, even if you cannot be honest with the others,” Remus replied, moving towards her.

 

Hermione took a step back, her mouth gaping at his words. “I have been honest with you, Remus.  But you are a fine one to talk about honesty and openness when you have secrets yourself,” Hermione lectured, giving Remus a pointed look.

 

“You know that’s not the same thing,” he replied, “and yet, it’s ironic that you should bring that up.”

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes.  “What do you mean?”

 

Remus gave her a soft lopsided smile.  “Top notes of Citrus, Cardamom, Paprika, Nutmeg, Caraway and Artemesia; middle notes of Lily of the Valley, Rose, Jasmine, Iris, Ylang-Ylang and Heliotrope; base notes of Virginia Cedar, Sandalwood, Vetiver, Vanilla, Tonka Bean, Amber and Musk.  An interesting choice don’t you think?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he stepped towards her once more. “To most people it could be passed off as your own perfume, but it isn’t, is it, Hermione?” he asked, his voice quiet.

 

Hermione shook her head, small tears trailing silently down her cheeks at his words as he stood a hair’s breadth away from her.  Oliver strained to hear Remus’s words as he leant down to whisper in her ear.

 

“The floral notes dry, plunging down to a carnal masculine scent; only one other person I know smells like that, and he lives the other side of this forest.”  Remus stalked over to the table, sitting down, waiting for Hermione to react.

 

“You don’t need me to tell you that which you already know,” she hissed as she wiped away the hot angry tears with her sleeve, bitterly.

Remus chuckled wryly.  “No, Hermione.  I do not.  But what I do need you to do is tell me if there is anything else you are holding back about him.  Anything that might put the others in danger.”

 

Hermione shook her head.  “No.  If anything, the others are safer than you think.”

Remus tilted his head as he looked at her.  “What do you mean?”

 

Now it was Hermione’s turn to chuckle wryly.  “He is not ‘on the side of the angels’.  That is how he put it once.  He is not on the side of The Order.  But he isn’t on their side either.”

 

Remus considered this for a moment.  “I thought that might be the case.  Can we trust him?”

Hermione didn’t answer.  

Remus chuckled again.  “Of course.  Can you trust him?” he corrected.

 

Oliver watched her shadow as she nodded silently.

Remus let out a breath.  “Then that’s good enough for me.”

 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Remus,” Hermione reminded him, coming to sit across from him.

 

In his bed, Oliver turned over, watching as Remus turned to face Hermione.

 

“You know why,” he gave her a tired smile.

 

Hermione shook her head.  “No, I don’t.  Harry and Ron have secured the artefact.  If anything we should be at one of the other properties, not at the same one.”

 

Remus took one of the sheets of parchment detailing the notes she had made that afternoon, but in the dim light and from his bed, Oliver could not see what he was pointing to.

 

“Yes, but I still don’t understand.  This is exactly what I am talking about.  For once, give up the riddles and just tell me what is going on.  You say you need to be able to trust him, that you need to be able to trust me, that it’s me who is keeping secrets, but you hold back, all the time.  I understand it with Dean, Oliver and Dennis.  But I don’t understand it with me,” she hissed, her voice betraying the strain she felt.

 

Remus let out a long sigh, carding his hands through his hair.  “It’s all very well collecting these artifacts, but you know we need to destroy them.  And the key to that, as you know, is the very creature Harry slayed in his second year.”

 

Hermione frowned.  “Then I don’t understand.  Why haven’t we gone to Hogwarts?”

 

“Don’t you think You Know Who has thought of that?” Remus asked, emitting a tired chuckle before turning quiet, his expression turning from quiet humour to a more sombre brooding.  “We need to get into the Manor,” he explained.

 

“You think he is hoarding venom?” Hermione asked, shocked.

Remus shook his head.  “He is hoarding venom but that’s not what Arthur and I think is here.  I think he has something even more valuable that only a worthy Gryffindor can locate.”

 

Stunned, Hermione took in his words, silent as Remus excused himself to go fetch water.

 

Oliver watched as Remus stepped out of the tent, dropping the heavy canvas as he went.

 

Hermione took a deep breath, standing from the table, her footfalls light as she made her way down the steps towards her bunk.  She paused as she reached Oliver’s bed, her head turning slightly as she spoke.  “You caught all of that didn’t you,” she stated, her voice low.

 

“Yeah, I did,” he replied, stunned that she had been aware that he had been awake the whole time.  He sat up, swinging his legs round.

 

Hermione closed her eyes.  “I should have known that he could smell it.”

 

Oliver looked at her, confused.

 

“His cologne.  He could smell it on me,” she explained.

 

“Ah,” Oliver replied as Hermione came to sit beside him on the bed.  “Has he had word from any of the others?”

Hermione nodded.  “Arthur’s team have secured two.  So have Bill’s team.  We just need to secure the means to destroy them.”

 

Oliver twisted around to look at her.  “Yeah, about that, what was Remus talking about.  What did he mean: ‘Worthy Gryffindor’?” 

Hermione turned to face him, her eyes meeting his.  “The Sword of Gryffindor.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Dropping the logs onto the hearth, Marcus knelt down to start building the fire.  Crumpling the newspaper sheets in his hands, he allowed his mind to wander with thoughts of Oliver.  He could recall every encounter they had ever had: the moment they met on the train, the first time they travelled to Hogwarts; the day they were both selected for their House Quidditch teams; the day they were both announced as captains; the day Oliver’s team won the House Cup; the first time he had cornered Oliver in the changing rooms after a game; the first time they had kissed; the first time they had shared a bed; the first time Marcus had admitted to Oliver that he loved him.  Each image was interspersed with hundreds of other moments of Marcus watching Oliver: in class; across the courtyard; on the pitch; in the great hall; down by the lake; in the shower; asleep in his bed.  Marcus crumpled into a hyperventilating mess as he came undone, a thousand emotions consuming him until he was unable to breathe.

 

Choking on his own tears, he gripped the wrought iron door to the woodburner, the metal digging into the calloused flesh of his palm as he rubbed his eyes furiously with the heel of his other hand, grinding the tears away.   He struggled to regain his composure on the hearth, his ragged breathing coming in hiccups.  

 

The faint scent of what his heart told him was Oliver still lingered on the woollen turtleneck jumper that he had yet to take off.  Dipping his nose down into the cable knit fabric, he breathed in deeply, his eyes closing as he took in the cool freshness of the spearmint, Italian lemon, and citrus notes that lay over a base of sensual woody musk, with oriental and spicy notes.  He was no expert on cologne but he knew the scent of Tom Ford, Noir; it’s scent blending with fresh mown grass, crisp apples, and the smell that comes after rain.  A scent that was uniquely Oliver and embedded in his heart, memorised until it was a part of Marcus as much as Oliver.

 

He remembered giving Oliver a bottle for Christmas, joking with him about the fact that it was all he needed to wear.  His lips twitched into a smile as he remembered the way Oliver had looked up coyly through his eyelashes, telling him that he would not be needing these then, his eyes fixed on Marcus’s as he removed his t-shirt and boxers causing Marcus to swallow hard.

 

Beside him on the coffee table, the radio crackled, causing Marcus to look up sharply, listening as the newest report came in. 

 

_ “We have now confirmed that lightning has indeed struck the outpost.  The strike ground zero is half a mile south of this location in the place that is prohibited.  Further storms are expected with gale force twelve winds.  I repeat, further storms are expected, gale force twelve winds.” _

 

“Fuck!” Marcus yelled, rushing to his feet as the emotion within him overwhelmed him.  Suddenly the candles in the room flickered, the fire he had prepared in the woodburner roaring to life, papers strewn across the table fluttering.  The magic within him surged through his veins, sparking all around him.  Trembling, he dropped to his knees, doubling over.  

“No, no, no,” he cried, knowing his voice was going unheard; that he was powerless to stop The Order confronting the Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest.  His eyes misted over as he sobbed, knowing that with each minute that passed, the greater was the chance that he would never see Oliver alive again.  His heart ached, deep in his chest, as he focused on the image of Oliver, lying asleep in his bed.  He shook his head, his hands clamping on his temples in a vice like grip as he tried in vain to not imagine Oliver lying dead on the ground in the Forest.  

 

Suddenly he heard a noise outside, causing him to scramble to his feet, wand in hand.  Eyes darting all around, he tried to locate the source.  It had sounded like the crack of apparition but he could not be sure.  Cautiously, his eyes wide, adrenaline surging through him, he went to the window, his back pressing against the wall before surreptitiously peering out. Seeing nothing, yet uncertain that the danger had passed, he pressed his back to the wall once more, his chest rising and falling with each panicked breath.  

 

Chancing another glance out the window, he was certain he saw movement just beyond the garden right before he heard another crack as whoever it was disapparated away.

“Shit! Fuck!” Marcus hissed, grabbing the radio and taking it to the kitchen.  Slamming it down on the table, he raised his wand, adding to the wards that he had put in place, setting them to sound alarms if they were triggered.  Wringing his hands, he rubbed his right hand over his left wrist, feeling the bracelet as it moved back and forth with the motion.  Stilling his hand, he lifted his wand, adjusting the wards.

 

He knew his options were limited.  If Death Eaters were on their way, so be it.  After tonight the chances were high that Oliver would be dead, and he could not face a life without him.  Reaching into the cupboard next to the stove, he pulled out the bottle of firewhiskey he had found several days before, stashing it there for such a time as this.  Unscrewing the cap, he took a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as the liquid burned the back of his throat.  One hand clutching the bottle, the other gripping his wand so tight his knuckles turned white, he dropped heavily into the chair facing the back door.  

 

Senses on full alert, he waited for the inevitable.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Okay, so Hermione and Oliver will enter the Manor here; Dean, Dennis and I will…”

“No.”

Remus looked up, his tired eyes meeting Hermione’s.  “No?”

Hermione shook her head.  “No.  Oliver and I will go to the Manor alone.”

Dean and Dennis’s eyes went wide as they turned to her, then back to Remus, their voices raised in protest.  

Remus held Hermione’s gaze as the young men continued to argue.

“Enough,” he told them, cutting them off.  “Hermione and Oliver will go to the Manor alone,” Remus paused, his eyes narrowing at the curly haired witch.  “Are you sure about this?”

Hermione nodded.  “It is the only way.”

 

“So what are we supposed to do? Just sit here doing nothing while you attempt to infiltrate a known Death Eater stronghold?” Dean cried, the frustration deep in his voice.

“We have no idea whether the sword is even there,” Hermione began, her voice low but authoritarian.  “But even if it is, it is useless without the ‘Magicis Exorcismo’,” she told them, referring to the text they had retrieved from Flint Manor.

 

Remus nodded slowly as Dean looked from Hermione to Remus and back again.  “Don’t you have it?” he asked.

“No,” Hermione sighed.  “It got left behind.”

“So we need to retrieve it?” Dean asked, looking between them once more.

Remus shook his head.  “No, it’s too dangerous.  I will go alone.”

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Hermione’s nimble fingers reached inside her shirt, pulling a silver necklace out from where it sat, the circular disk pendant lying next to her heart.

Oliver frowned as he watched her lift it over her head, laying it down on the table.  Hermione ran her fingertips over the fifteen indentations in the metal disk, the corners of her lips curving up into a soft smile.  “There are fifteen stars in the constellation Draco,” she told Oliver as she took out her wand, holding it against the disk until it glowed.

 

Pocketing her wand, she slipped the necklace back over her head.

“Now what?” Oliver asked, frowning at Hermione.

Sighing, she slipped onto the bench opposite him.  “Now, we wait.”

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Slipping out of the shadows, the crack of twigs underfoot resonating in the night air, she watched him spin around, wand in hand raised reflexively.

“Hermione,” Draco breathed.  Oliver watched on, shifting his weight uncomfortably as they young couple embraced, the desperation of their touches making his heart ache deeply for Marcus.

“Is it here?” Hermione whispered, searching Draco’s eyes.

“I’m not sure.  Bella was screaming hysterically about it after Potter and Weasley broke through the wards,” he told her, pausing as he met the intensity of her gaze.  “We will only have one shot at this.   She strengthened the wards with Black blood.  Father won’t know you are here, but Mother will be able to feel your presence.”

“What about your aunt?” Oliver asked, startled by the speed at which Draco spun on his heel, snarling at him.  “I refuse to acknowledge that lunatic as my aunt,” he spat, his pale blue eyes like ice as he glared, nostrils flaring with rage.  

 

Hermione squeezed Draco’s hand and his icy stare found her warm chocolate pools, calming him so he visibly relaxed.  “I believe I have that taken care of, but our timing must be precise,” he told them cryptically.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

“Lucius, you’re impertinence is most unfortunate,” Voldemort sighed nonchalantly.

“My Lord?” Lucius whimpered as he knelt before him, his head hung in shame.

“My Lord?” Voldemort echoed, his tone mocking.  “I have probed your mind, and what your son has told me is true.  Your meetings with Rudolphus have not been sanctioned,” he spat, his glare boring through Lucius as his eyes flashed with fury.  Voldemort glanced over at Bella, who licked her lips as she grinned maniacally.

“Bella, would you mind?” he drawled, bored as he turned his back on the whimpering Lucius, drifting across the drawing room, Nagini slithering at his side.

Bella laughed, stepping forward, her wand raised.  “ _ Crucio _ .”

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Draco felt the burn, every nerve in his body firing under his skin.  “The time is now,” he told Hermione, as he held out his left hand, cleaving it open with his wand.

“Draco!” Hermione’s voice was urgent as her eyes widened at the action.

“She strengthened the wards with Black blood,” he told her as he gripped the wrought iron gate with his bloody hand, the exsanguination coating the metal.  The magic shifted, the iron curling back as the gates shimmered.  Taking Hermione by the hand, he guided her and Oliver across the threshold and into the Manor.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

As they searched the study frantically, Draco carded his hand through his blond locks with growing desperation.  “It must be here,” he insisted.  “They would not risk leaving it anywhere else.”

Hermione chewed her bottom lip.  “There isn’t anywhere else? You’re sure?”

Oliver dropped into the couch, his heart clenching as he thought of Marcus and everything that was at stake.  The Order had secured every horcrux, but without the sword they had no means of destroying it.  

 

Hermione shook her head, panic rising within her.  “I have no idea what to do.  Without the sword..” she began, her words trailing off.

Oliver rose from the couch.  “We will find a way.  This isn’t over.”

Hermione turned to him. “But Oliver…”

Oliver’s eyes met hers, but then a glimmer caught his eye, causing him to look over her shoulder.  Silently, he stepped past her as Hermione and Draco looked on, confusion etched on their faces.

 

Going to the bookshelf, the glimmer that had caught his eye grew stronger and then suddenly he saw it appear on the bookshelf.  His hand curled around the handle, lifting the heavy sword up as he turned to face the shocked witch and wizard.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Twigs cracked underfoot as they rushed through the trees, slipping past the wards and into the tent.  

“You have it?” Dean asked, rushing to his feet.

“Yes, where’s Remus?” Hermione breathed as she caught her breath back.

 

Dean narrowed his eyes, stepping forward, angrily.  “Malfoy?”

“Thomas,” Draco spat derisively as Hermione stepped between them.  

“Enough, both of you,” she told them, the palms of her hands pressed to Dean’s torso.  “Trust me, please,” she whispered to Dean, as he dropped back into his seat.  “Where’s Remus?”

“Does he know?” Dean asked, rounding on Hermione.

Hermione nodded.

“Yes, I know,” Remus confirmed, stepping inside the tent.

“Do you have it?” Hermione asked, searching his eyes.

 

Remus shook his head.  “No.  There was someone there.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes as Remus slipped his tired frame onto the bench, raking his hands down his face before his gaze fell on Oliver.

 

Oliver swallowed hard under the intensity of Remus’s scrutiny.  Sensing the atmosphere, Dean and Dennis excused themselves to fetch firewood.  Hermione watched as the two men sat in silence, feeling Draco tug her hand, pulling her towards the opening of the tent.  

 

His eyes fixed on Oliver, Remus nodded.  “It’s okay, Hermione.  Just give us a minute,” he told her.  Hermione sighed as she allowed Draco to pull her outside.  His hands found their way into her hair as his lips found hers in a bruising kiss, and he poured months of emotion and longing into the searing action.

 

Breaking for air, he cupped her cheek, dropping his forehead to hers.  “It’s coming isn’t it? The end, I mean,” he whispered, feeling her nod as she closed her eyes.  He took a breath.  “I don’t want you to fight,” he told her, capturing her lips as she started to protest.  “But I know you better than to ask you not to,” he told her.  “I’ve seen so much bloodshed already, and so much of it is on my hands.  But I won’t let you fight alone.” He pulled back, tilting her chin up gently so she could see the emotion in his eyes as he spoke.  “I am not going to fight for The Order.  I think you know that by now.  As I told you before I am not on the side of the angels.  So I won’t fight for them, but I will fight for us.”

oOoOoOoOo

 

Oliver swallowed hard.  

“There was someone in the cottage when I arrived,” Remus began, his gaze holding Oliver’s.

“Who?” Oliver whispered, as his heart pounded in his chest.

“I couldn’t be sure,” Remus told him.  “But what I do know is that I have smelt that person before.  The night you came to meet me in the Forbidden Forest, I smelt that person on you.”  Remus paused, watching the emotion flicker across Oliver’s eyes.  “I can tell you who I suspect it is, but I need you to confirm.”

 

Oliver nodded, his breath hitching in his throat as Remus spoke again.

“Marcus Flint.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

The grip Marcus had on his wand tightened, his knuckles turning white, his palm cramping painfully as he felt his wards being probed with a quiet gentleness that made his skin crawl.  He knew the Death Eaters took a perverse pleasure in toying with their prey, but the intimacy with which he felt his magic being stroked sickened him to his very core.  Biting back the bile that rose from the pit of his stomach, threatening to spill forth it’s meagre contents, he ignored the pain that caused his arm to tremble as he gripped his wand even tighter.  Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer against an iron anvil, as he waited for the inevitable.  

He ground his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, his breathing ragged; eyes wide, his senses were on full alert as he listened.  The shadow of the approaching Death Eater fell across the back door, plunging the kitchen into semi-darkness as it blocked out the light, as though the light had gone out from the world.

Swallowing hard, a thousand scenarios sped through his mind, as he tried to calculate his first, second, and third moves, knowing they would no doubt be his last.  It is said that when close to death, a person experiences a montage of images from their life flashing before their eyes, but Marcus did not experience this.  As he took in the breath he presumed to be his last, the back door flinging open, the only thoughts that flashed across his mind were of Oliver as he experienced again every moment they had shared in their eighteen years.  Oliver: his best friend, lover, and soulmate.  In another life, the man Marcus would have married and grown old with.  

Eyes still wide, tears streaming down his face as he trembled, his body wracking with sobs, he pictured Oliver standing before him as he accepted his fate in the face of the inevitable.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

“Marcus,” Oliver screamed again at the catatonic wizard who sat, paralysed with fear, at the kitchen table before him.  Letting go of the door handle, he rushed to his side, crouching down beside him.  Hands splayed across his cheeks, he turned Marcus to face him, searching his eyes desperately.  

Crashing his lips to Marcus’s own chapped lips in a bruising kiss of desperation and hunger, he felt his face dampen with Marcus’s tears.  Marcus blinked several times as Oliver murmured his name over and over, his fingers enmeshed in Marcus’s matted locks as he clung to him like a buoy in a raging storm.

Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, Marcus whispered his name.  “Oliver?”

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

The buzzing drone in his mind drowned out the sounds around Marcus, the feeling of being apart from his own body discombobulating his senses.  Fear and anguish gripped his heart, causing his chest to constrict tightly.  He blinked furiously, trying to make a connection with the chaos that surrounded him.  

The buzzing drone increased, the chaos spinning out of control, time stretching out into eternity before snapping, pulling him back into the room with a ferocious intensity.

His breath hitched in his raw throat as he choked back sobs.  Finally, his voice broke free in a hoarse whisper of anguish.  “Oliver?”

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Oliver held Marcus tight, gently rocking him, as the sobs wracked through his body.  Finally, he was spent: his breathing became less laboured, his body relaxing into the familiarity and comfort of his much longed for embrace.  The abstinence had not made his heart grow fonder as much as it made him cling on to him fearful of losing him once more.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Sometime later, they lay on the couch in the front room of the cottage, wrapped in each other’s arms, warmed by the fire that burned quietly in the stove.  Oliver’s fingers wove into Marcus’s hair, massaging his scalp as he clung on to Oliver’s shirt.

“That’s my favourite jumper, you know,” Oliver whispered, as Marcus buried his nose into Oliver’s chest, breathing his scent in deeply, filling his lungs with the creamy, slightly vanillic bergamot scent of his cologne: it's citrus opening faded to a powdery opoponax, the minty tingle contrasted with the brash verbena and geranium accord that trailed into a light amber as it's civet musk rounded out, mingling with the scent of fresh mown grass, crisp apples, and the smell that comes after rain, that was uniquely Oliver.

Marcus hummed his reply as he buried himself deeper, causing Oliver to chuckle.  The vibration rumbled through his chest, soothing Marcus as he closed his eyes, the rhythmic thump of Oliver’s heart lulling him into a deep sleep as Oliver pressed a kiss to Marcus's hair.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

All too soon, Marcus felt himself awake, cold and alone on the couch, wondering for a moment if he had dreamt Oliver’s presence.  Shaking the feeling, he padded out to the kitchen where Oliver sat, teacup in hand, listening to the day’s broadcast.  Marcus momentarily allowed relief to wash over him, before his eyes met Oliver’s.  

He swallowed hard.

“You’re leaving again, aren’t you.”

Marcus’s words were more question than statement.

“I have to,” Oliver told him, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.  “Come with me.”

The words spilled forth before Oliver could stop them, anxiety wrapping its wings around Oliver’s heart as Marcus’s eyes went wide, his face contorting in a mix of fury and bewilderment.

“Are you mad?” he cried, the atmosphere around them thickening.

Oliver flushed as he felt the emotions tear his heart to pieces under the intensity of Marcus’s stare.

“No, I am…” he began.

“A Gryffindor,” he spat, rage building inside him.  “I know.”

Oliver shook his head.  “No, more than that, I am a member of The Order,” he cried, tearing up his sleeve, the wings of the phoenix spreading majestically across his left forearm.  “I was always going to fight, Marcus,” he told him, pain deep in his voice.

“And I was always going to run,” Marcus whispered, the grief thick in his own as he turned away.  “I am a coward.”

 

Oliver shook his head, rising from his seat, he blocked Marcus’s hasty departure, his hand gripping his shoulders as Marcus hung his head in shame.  “No,” Oliver told him, tilting his head up.  “No,” he repeated, pressing a desperate kiss once more to his chapped lips.  “No. You are not a coward.  You are frightened, lost, and confused.  There is no shame in that, Marcus Flint,” Oliver cried, kissing him once more, burning the feeling on the back of Marcus’s mind.

“I will come back, I swear it to you,” Oliver told him, as they clung to each other desperately, lips crashing together.

“I swear it,” Oliver repeated before apparating back to Wiltshire, the book tucked under his arm.

Marcus nodded as Oliver was whisked away by the magic.  Somehow he wasn’t as confident that Oliver would return.

  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Marcus took a steadying breath as he stepped forward, his eyes drifting over the names engraved in the memorial plaque.  Some were familiar to him, others he had never heard of.  How could one go through life not knowing half the names of people they were at school with? He wondered, as he ran a calloused hand over the polished brass, pausing at each name he recognised.  Some were students, others professors; members of The Order and Death Eaters listed side by side in the seemingly endless rows of names. 

Marcus brushed his hand over the name his eyes gravitated to, the pain in his chest causing it to constrict tightly as he struggled to breath.  Tears streamed down his face as his hand clamped down across his eyes.  A hand came up across his shoulder and instinctively he turned into the comfort offered as he felt fingers in his hair massaging his scalp.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

It had been a year since the final battle had taken place in the grounds of the school that had been his home since he was eleven.  The battle had raged on like a storm cleaving open the landscape, scattering the casualties and fatalities like discarded rag dolls: it had been almost a week before final lists had been compiled.

As the battle had drawn out into the night, Marcus had torn the little cottage apart with his hands, finally falling to his knees surrounded by the splintered debris of a sideboard.    Chest heaving, his fingers curled around the neck of a bottle of whiskey, dragging it as he found his way back to the couch. Unscrewing the cap, he lifted it to his lips, hissing as the liquid burned the back of his throat.  Listening to the radio, he allowed his mind to succumb to the darkness that was pulling him in.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

Bleary eyes opened, blinking furiously at the angelic face, translucent glory surrounded by a golden halo.  Hands reached out, grabbing hold of his shoulder, shaking him.

“Flint!” the angel yelled, taking hold of the bottle and pulling him more upright.  Clouds in the sky drifted over the sun, blocking out the light and casting a shadow over the angelic face.

Marcus blinked as the figure dropped, crouching in front of him, yelling his name once more.  His eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown as he realised the angelic demi-god before him was mortal and none other than Draco Malfoy.

Draco shook his head as Marcus dropped his head against the back of the couch.  Reaching forward he took hold of the sleeve of Marcus’s cable knit turtleneck, apparating them both out of the cottage.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

“Drink this,” Draco instructed, shoving a small vial in Marcus’s hand as they stumbled over rubble, picking their way towards the school.  Marcus narrowed his eyes at the label.  

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Hangover potion,” Draco replied simply, as the doors to the castle flew open, light footfalls sounding as a raven and emerald blur flew at Marcus.

Marcus stumbled slightly as his arms came instinctively around the witch’s shoulders, feeling her tears soak through the jumper that hung off his once muscular frame.  After a minute, he unclasped her hands from around his neck, stepping back slightly.  

“Pansy,” Marcus breathed, watching as she brushed her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Oh, Marcus. I am so, so sorry,” she whispered, shaking her head as Marcus’s eyes went wide.  He turned to Draco whose mouth fell open, but no sound came out.  Tugging Pansy’s hands away from where she clung to his jumper, he broke into a run, racing through the castle until he reached the hospital wing.  He wouldn’t believe it until he saw it with his own eyes.

 

“Mister Flint!” Madam Pomfrey cried, rushing from her desk as Marcus came to a halt, his eyes darting desperately around the room.

“Where is he?” Marcus yelled, hands going to his hair and tugging with frustration.

Madam Pomfrey’s face softened upon seeing Marcus’s anguish, her previous anger dissipating for the time being.  Reaching out, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “The headmistress is arranging the burials.  There were so many, Marcus,” she told him, shaking her head sadly, as she directed him to sit with her in the chairs off to one side of the room.  “Your father,” she began, as Marcus’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, confusion etched on his face.  “His coffin is with the others in the Great Hall,” she told him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

 

Marcus screwed his eyes shut as he tried to process her words.  “My father?” he repeated, the emotion cracking in his voice.

Madam Pomfrey’s eyes narrowed.  “Why, yes, Mister Flint.  That is who you wanted to see, is it not?”

Marcus shook his head.  “I thought…” he began, his words trailing off.  Swallowing hard, he began again.  “Malfoy brought me here...he didn’t...hasn’t…” he choked back tears as his voice broke.  “Wood.”

Madam Pomfrey frowned.  “Oliver Wood?” she asked, shock evident in her voice as Marcus nodded, trying to ignore the hope that rose like a balloon in his chest.  

“Why, he’s in the private room across the hall,” she told him, her mouth opening ready to chastise him as he tore from the room.  Closing her mouth, she thought better of it, deciding to give the man some time to ground his emotions.  She understood how overwhelming this was for everyone involved.  Sighing heavily she returned to her desk.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

“You promised you would come back to me,” Marcus began, his voice cracking with emotion as he made his way across the room.

“He’s still unconscious,” Hermione’s voice drifted sympathetically across the room.  Marcus spun on his heel seeing her sat with a book in the corner of the room, her left forearm bandaged from her wrist to her elbow.  She smiled softly at him.  

“They wouldn’t let me aparate, that’s why I sent Draco,” she explained as she shut the book, holding it out towards Marcus, nodding for him to take it.

Marcus snorted at the ridiculousness of the notion, picturing Oliver taking the book with him to every safehouse, even when other possessions had been left behind.  Instinctively, the fingers of his right hand drifted up his left sleeve touching the bracelet, rubbing it back and forth over his wrist.  He dropped onto the edge of Oliver’s bed, opening the book, finding the poem he had written for Oliver, his fingers tracing over the inked words.

 

The door to the room pushed open slightly causing Marcus to look up from the book as Draco slipped inside.  Hermione leaned into him as his hands found their way into her chestnut curls.  Marcus averted his gaze, his heart clenching as Draco dropped a chaste kiss to Hermione’s forehead.

“Time for you to take a break and have some lunch,” Draco instructed, tugging Hermione’s hand.  Marcus glanced up as Hermione squeezed his shoulder, silently communicating with him, nodding to them both before they slipped out, Draco’s arm wrapped protectively around Hermione’s shoulders.

 

Marcus turned to Oliver as the door clicked shut softly.  Reaching forward, he stroked the hair away from where it was flopped across his forehead.  “You promised you would come back to me,” he whispered, pain in his voice.

 

oOoOoOoOo

 

The May sunshine warmed the four of them as they made their way across the courtyard, long stemmed white roses in hand, ready to place them by the plaque.   Marcus took a steadying breath as he stepped forward, his eyes drifting over the names engraved in the memorial stone.  Some were familiar to him, others he had never heard of.  How could he have gone through life not knowing half the names of people they were at school with? He wondered, as he ran a calloused hand over the polished brass, pausing at each name he recognised.  

Brushing his hand over the name his eyes gravitated to, the pain in his chest caused it to constrict tightly as he struggled to breath.  Tears streamed down his face as his hand clamped down across his eyes.  A hand came up across his shoulder and instinctively he turned into the comfort offered as he felt fingers in his hair massaging his scalp.

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Oliver whispered as Marcus sobbed into his shoulder.  After a moment, Marcus lifted his head, shaking it as he ground the tears away with the heel of his hand.  

“It’s not,” he swallowed hard, trying to not think about what might have been.  “He was a selfish bastard.  I should not be mourning him.”

“He was still your father,” Oliver murmured.  “It’s alright to grieve.”

Marcus chuckled wryly.  “Even if they were on the other side of this war?”

“Especially so,” Hermione told him as she reached out to squeeze his shoulder.  

 

Turning back to the plaque, Marcus nodded as his hand found Oliver’s.  Hermione smiled as Draco slipped his arm around her shoulders, her hand reaching out, fingers wrapping around Marcus’s.  The war had taken a part of each of them, forever changing their lives.  But as Marcus stood there with the three people who had come to mean the most to him, he knew they would all survive, together.

  
  
FIN  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and thanks to my dedicated beta team without whom this story would not exist xxxxxx


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